


Vespers

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-03-15
Updated: 2001-03-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:12:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Vespers

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Vespers by Merri-Todd Webster

DISCLAIMER: Once again, I'm taking someone else's characters--Chris's, 1013's, Fox's--and taking off their clothes. But at least I'm honest about it.  
I didn't know quite what pairing to put at the head of this story. It is a sequel to "L'Alba" and so I got Mona's permission to post it to Xslash-stories; however, Krycek is nowhere in sight, and Scully is. *There is m/f sex in this story*, so if that bothers you, don't say I didn't warn you. Likewise, there is discussion of a m/m sexual relationship, so don't say I didn't warn you about that either.

* * *

**********************  
Vespers  
by Merri-Todd Webster  
**********************

You alone are immortal, who made and fashioned mankind; we mortals then were formed from earth and to that same earth we shall go, as You who formed me commanded saying: You are earth, and you will go back to earth; to which all we mortals will go making our funeral lament a song: Alleluia.  
\--Kontakion for the Burial of the Dead,  
Orthodox Christian liturgy

*********

It was getting dark as Dana Scully put away her rosary. How long had she been doing this, now? Had she started to pray again, or to try to, when she believed she was dying? Had she kept it up because everything else fell apart, nothing could be trusted? She looked at the reddish-brown beads lying across her palm, joined by tiny pale gold links. Tiny links held everything together. So tiny.

She slipped the rosary back into its blue silk bag and placed it into the drawer of the nightstand, on top of the little book that contained the rosary prayers. She'd almost forgotten the right sequence of Hail Marys and Our Fathers, but what had drawn her to the book was its reproductions of paintings by Fra Angelico, one for each mystery. In her still-frequent skeptical moments, she thought simply looking at the beautiful, peaceful paintings helped her as much as, or more than, saying the prayers.

She closed the drawer and stood up, yawned and stretched. It had been a long evening, hot in a way that the air conditioner didn't quite cut, and she was already thinking of sleep. Bath first, or snack first? She was still trying to decide when she heard the door open.

She came into the living room and saw him before he caught sight of her. Unshaven, collar limp, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. A mark on his neck. A glow around the tired eyes.

"Scully!"

Mulder jerked upright, suitcase still in hand, into a stiff, defensive posture that she'd seen many times when Skinner was being difficult. One hand started to move toward his collar, then wandered away.

"I thought you were out of town. At your mother's."

Scully cleared her throat. "I was, but something came up with Bill and Tara and the kids. Mom had to fly out there, but they didn't need me." The bitterness in her voice chilled the room more than the air conditioning. Mulder put down his bags and came toward her, slowly, awkwardly, wobbling. He's afraid of me, she thought, and hated the satisfaction which that realization gave her. She folded her arms over her chest and let him have it.

"I know where you've been, Mulder."

He stopped in mid-stride, one foot just above the carpet. To his credit, he didn't attempt to lie, to dissemble. He just nodded, then put down the hovering foot and detoured into the armchair, where he slumped over, apparently staring at his shoes.

"How long?" he asked, after she said nothing else.

Scully shrugged, sat down on the sofa. "Long enough. Long enough to accept it."

His head jerked up. "Accept it? Christ, Scully, you--"

"I deserve better. Yeah, I know." She wrapped her arms more tightly around herself. "I know you tried to tell me that three years ago. You tried to tell me what I was getting into. I didn't listen. I wanted you too much." 

She bit her lip--I will not cry I swore I would never cry never cry over this never--and looked away. A tentative hand came to rest on her shoulder.

"There's nothing I can say, is there?"

She shook her head. Mulder headed toward the bathroom. When she heard the shower running, Scully got up and went to bed.

She heard him, later, coming into the dark bedroom. The sunset had finally faded completely. Of course she wasn't asleep. The bed gave under his weight, and she turned over, looking toward him in the dimness of the humid night.

To her surprise, he turned toward her and gathered her in, wrapping his arms around her and cupping the back of her head in his hand. He smelled good, of soap and just faintly of his own sweat, nothing else.

"Scully."

She rubbed her head against his chest and said nothing.

"Scully, I love you."

Once I would have given my soul to hear those words, she thought. And then I did. "I know."

"It's just that I need...." His voice trailed off, the hand stroking her hip stilled. "I won't give you up," he finished. Stubborn refusal stuck out of his voice like a rock.

Scully sighed. Mulder held her a little tighter, constricting her breathing. It was too hot for that, despite the a.c., and she drew away, sat up on the bed. He was looking at her, pleading, needy, eyes gleaming with a hazel light. Once she would have done anything to make him feel better, to make that look go away. That had changed when she realized how little he needed her. 

"I haven't given you up, Mulder." There was flint and steel in her voice. It hid the need she would never, could never admit to him. She needed him much too badly. That she needed him at all was less bearable than the fact of sharing him with someone else.

The pleading look changed into a smile, an enigmatic Mulder smile. He took hold of her hand and pulled her closer again, his fingers sliding into her hair as he captured her mouth for a kiss. Even as the inevitable familiar overture of arousal began to sound inside her, a different voice sounded in counterpoint: Does he kiss Krycek like this? Does he run his fingers through that short black hair the same way he runs them through mine? She hadn't heard that voice for a long time.

"Scully," he whispered against her lips. All the endearments in the world, on the lips of other lovers, never affected her the way her surname, her father's name, did on Mulder's lips. She shivered, once, and pushed down the straps of her nightgown so that her bare breasts could rest against his chest. Does he miss my breasts when he's with a man? the inner voice asked, but she ignored it. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him again, more aggressively than he had kissed her. After a pause, his arms went around her and his hands found her neck, her hair, her ass, agreeing to her demands.

Only a few hours ago, perhaps, he had been naked in bed with Krycek. Alex Krycek, their enemy, Mulder's lover, their own personal one-armed man. He had showered thoroughly, she wouldn't taste or smell the other man on him, and no doubt he paid Krycek the same courtesy, wouldn't go to him reeking of the other woman. Scully slid down and bit sharply at Mulder's throat, smiling. The skirt of her nightgown caught for a second on the moist head of his cock.

She didn't bother to take off the nightgown before going down on Mulder. 

He gasped inarticulately--was it *her* name he was saying?--and let his arms fall to his sides. Maybe Krycek had done this for him. Maybe he had done this for Krycek. When she first determined what was happening, she'd been unable to have sex for weeks, revolted by the knowledge. She'd pleaded a bumped cervix, evaded his touch as much as possible. But the nausea had passed, and eventually the sex had been as good as ever. Mulder was a skillful, considerate lover, as intuitive in bed as out of it, able to divine what she wanted and needed; she rarely, if ever, had to voice a preference, and she liked it that way.

But now, sucking him in, rubbing with slow firm strokes on what she couldn't take into her mouth, tasting Mulder (she loved the taste of his skin), Scully found it exciting to contemplate the two of them together, both tall and slim, brown hair and brown-black, Mulder's lips wrapped around another man's cock, Mulder being fucked as gracefully as he fucked her. She ran her tongue around and around the shapely head of his cock, making it wetter and wetter with her saliva and his pre-cum, and Mulder moaned, this time it *was* her name, "Scully...." She bent and tongued his balls until a fine hair caught in her teeth, then swung around and used her teeth on his nipples. Mulder moaned again and again.

Only when she sat up, at last, and pulled off the nightgown did he reach for her. She lay still, peaceful, contemplative, as he worked his way down her body with hands and mouth, like a harpist testing all the range of his instrument, sounding each string in turn. Her lips. Her shoulders. Her breasts. Her belly. Her thighs. Her feet. Finally, her cunt. She propped her feet on his shoulders and let him worship her, teasing her own nipples with idle fingers. Mulder gave as good as he'd gotten, touching and tasting every contour, suckling her clit until she cried out blissfully, diving into her as far as he could. Scully cried out again when he stroked her wet clit with one fingertip, quivering all over as though he plucked a string that made the whole frame sing. He can't do this with Krycek, she thought dreamily. Men can't come over and over. I can. I let him do that to me. 

Long fingers filled her cunt, sliding in easily. She felt so deep, as though he would never get to the core of her. Two fingers were replaced by three, just as she wanted, and Mulder's hand stayed steadfast, fingers inside her, thumb on her clit, while she thrust against him, eyes closed, lips parted, fucking herself and so happy that he would let her. He knew exactly when to take over and start pumping, bringing her to a convulsive pleasure that made her coil around his hand like a serpent.

Scully accepted Mulder's head onto her breasts, ruffling his hair with affection. "I love you," he whispered.

"Do you tell Krycek you love him?" 

It had gotten still darker, but she could see Mulder blinking owlishly. "What?"

"Do you tell Krycek that you love him? *Do* you love him?" She had never even dared to wonder, before, just as she never dared to doubt that when Mulder said he loved her, he meant it. For Mulder to lie like that was an impossibility. But he was capable of lying with Krycek.

"Scully!"

She heard, underneath, what he wouldn't say: Scully, you're breaking the rules, you're not supposed to act this way, you're not supposed to ask questions. She reached for his cock, still erect, still wet, heard him whimper as she tenderly squeezed the resilient head. "Never mind, I want you to fuck me."

Mulder knelt over her obediently, letting her hands guide him in. He groaned as her cunt engulfed his cock, and Scully bit her lip to keep quiet. Good, it was always so good, she'd been celibate so long before she and Mulder had gotten through that barrier, and her body was still grateful every single time, praising God for every touch and every orgasm. They moved together in an easy rhythm like perfectly matched dancers, back and forth, back and forth, Mulder's eyes squeezed shut and Scully's eyes locked on his face.

All it took was clenching her muscles around him as he moved, and she could have one orgasm after another while pushing him to his limit. Scully took her pleasure slowly, relentlessly, while watching the signs on Mulder's face, looking for the point of no return. He ground into her, gasping, losing the beat for a few seconds, and then the words were ground out of him. 

"He loves me." 

"What?"

"He loves me." He pushed in harder. "Krycek loves me. I don't deserve it, but he loves me--" 

This was it: the tension in his face, the lips curled back, his hips stuttering against hers, he'd forgotten now that she was small and fragile, and Scully offered her fingers to his mouth, to his greedy suckling, and when they were wet and slick cupped his ass and went in after his prostate.

Mulder screamed as the orgasm took him, shaking like an animal in the jaws of a predator. Scully growled in her throat as one last ferocious spasm passed from him to her, hanging on to him tightly, one arm around his ribcage and her fingers buried in his asshole. When it was over, he collapsed on top of her, heavy, sated, smelling strongly of sweat and sex.

As soon as she stirred beneath him, Mulder withdrew and rolled away. As usual, Scully went to the bathroom, cleaned herself, brought back a damp washcloth for Mulder. She had insisted that they not use condoms; they were both clean, of course, and there was no danger of pregnancy, none at all. She put back on the discarded nightgown, settling it over her still swollen breasts, and got back into bed. Mulder's hand squeezed hers, when she took it, but he was already snoring.

She reached out and turned on the radio, knowing she would not sleep for a while. A chesty Russian chorus burst out, but softly, with something she thought she recognized. Rachmaninov's Vespers? Or the Kontakion, the hymn for the dead she'd heard all too recently at another agent's funeral?

I love you, Mulder, she thought. But I need you too much to tell you.

*********

end


End file.
